“If you don’t think you can…”
“No, no, of course, I can make it. I was just taken back by how quickly everything was happening. You’ll have your article on time.”
“And remember, Crys—officially I’m sending you because I need that article. That’s your first priority. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“If you can find out about Michael, so much the better. But that’s not your top priority. And anything you do find out, you report it to the police. Don’t put yourself at risk.”
* * *
After she hung up, Crys gave a series of fist pumps. Not only could she look for Michael, but National Geographic had just given her a huge professional opportunity. And she’d get to a continent she’d always wanted to visit. After wolves, elephants were her favorite animal, even though she’d never seen a live one. And Africa had the biggest population of them in the world.
There was another huge bonus. She would have to go to Vietnam.
She’d been born there, but when she was a year old, she, her mother and her brother had left for Minnesota, taking advantage of the refugee program. Crys had never been back.
She stood up and walked down the hallway to her boss, Scott Nielsen’s, office.
He looked up as she came in. “You look pretty pleased with yourself.”
Crys nodded, a huge smile lighting up her face. “National Geographic has asked me to be a co-author on an article on rhino poaching! I’ll have to go to South Africa.”
“That’s wonderful! When do you need to leave?”
“Tomorrow!”
“Tomorrow?” Scott gasped. “Why so soon? I’ve stuff I want you to do.”
As she explained what had happened and why she was offered the job, Scott raised his eyebrows. “You never cease to amaze me, Crys. Now you’re a one-woman search-and-rescue mission. Okay, you’d better get going, but there’s a price for me being so accommodating—a weekly column on what you’ve been up to in Africa. Okay?”
She nodded. “Of course. It’ll be fun to write something more casual than the Geographic stuff.”
“Drop me an email tonight about the projects you’re working on. I’ll make sure they’re covered.”
“Thanks, Scott. I just can’t believe this has happened to me.”
* * *
That night Crys was frantic. There was so much to organize.
She started by going online and buying an open ticket to Johannesburg via Atlanta.
It was going to be fifteen hours on the plane. Not her favorite activity.
She then sent off a number of emails to set up appointments in South Africa, to be followed up the next day with calls.
The next morning, she raced around Duluth trying to find clothes more suitable for Africa than Minnesota, and a good, but not-too-expensive, camera.
When she got home, the parcel from Sara was on her doorstep. She grabbed it, made a cup of coffee, and skimmed through Michael’s material to find out who he’d spoken to and what he’d learned about rhino poaching and rhino-horn smuggling.
She was immediately drawn into his investigation. He’d met with several government officials and NGOs in Vietnam, as well as some people involved in selling rhino horns and rhino-horn powder. It seemed that either consumption was increasing or supply was decreasing, because several of the people selling rhino horns had complained about a shortage and rising prices.
After that, he’d gone to South Africa. And that’s where the trail stopped. There was nothing since he’d emailed her and Sara about being close to a breakthrough on how rhino horn was being smuggled out of that country.
There was no hint of what he had found out or who was involved. It was a mystery.
She put the notes aside with a frown. Now she needed to pack. She could read the material more carefully on the flight to Johannesburg. Perhaps she would find some detail she’d missed
Part 2
South Africa
Chapter 3
Crys wanted to scream. She’d been sitting outside the minister’s office at the Department of Environmental Affairs in Pretoria for more than two hours, basically twiddling her thumbs. Instead of interviewing the minister about the future of the rhino population in South Africa, she was struggling to keep awake as jet lag took hold of her body. To make matters worse, she’d heard nothing from Delta about her luggage, which had failed to show up on the carousel at Johannesburg’s Oliver Tambo airport the night before.
“Do you think the minister will be available soon?” she asked the minister’s secretary for what felt like the hundredth time.
The secretary shrugged. “Dr. Duma said she’d be back by now, but it was the president who wanted to see her. He’s a little unpredictable when it comes to time.”
“I’ve flown here all the way from the United States for this appointment,” Crys said, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice.
Organizing the meeting with the minister by phone from Duluth had been difficult enough. Now she didn’t think she was going to see the minister at all. Crys forced a smile, trying to keep in the secretary’s good books. “What does her schedule look like tomorrow?”
The secretary glanced at her computer screen. “Impossible. She has a meeting at eight. Then a lunch with her counterpart from Mozambique, and in the afternoon, she flies to Switzerland. The best I can do is to take you to Mr. Tolo, the deputy minister. Let me call him and see if he’s willing to talk to you.”
Crys wasn’t happy with the offer, but accepted reluctantly. But she did recognize the deputy minister’s name from Michael’s notes. The minister had sent Michael to meet with him as well.
A few minutes later, she was shown into Tolo’s office. He waved her to a seat and went back to reading a letter.
At last he looked up. “What can I do for you, Miss Nguyen?” He pronounced her name “Naguyen’.
Tired and irritable, Crys couldn’t stop herself: “It’s pronounced like the word “when’. It’s Vietnamese.” Seeing his raised eyebrows, Crys tried to adopt a more pleasant tone. “It’s very difficult to pronounce, I know. And thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. Tolo, particularly at such short notice.”
Tolo stared at her, impassive, so Crys pulled out her notebook and launched straight into her list of questions.
But he wasn’t helpful, and Crys found his answers superficial, even evasive at times.
She told herself to keep calm.
She was frustrated, though, that she had to keep pushing to get answers to her most important questions and began to think that Tolo either didn’t know much about the rhino situation, or simply didn’t care.
Eventually, he held up his hand. “Miss Nguyen,” he said, using the same mangled pronunciation as before, “we appreciate your concern about the rhino population here. But we know what we’re doing. We’re managing the situation.”
“Mr. Tolo, I’m not here to judge,” Crys said, “just to gather facts for an article National Geographic has asked me to write. Southern Africa lost about fifteen hundred rhinos last year, with over a thousand of those in South Africa itself. How can you say you have the situation under control?”
Tolo sucked in his lower lip. “I didn’t say there wasn’t a problem. I said we’re doing what we can. South Africa is much stricter on these things than most other countries in Africa. And poachers are often shot on sight here—although that’s not allowed, or encouraged, of course. We appreciate the support we get from National Geographic and the World Wildlife Fund and so on, but we don’t need to be told how to run things.” The smile he now gave her wasn’t exactly warm. “Maybe you should visit your countrymen in Vietnam and tell them to stop buying rhino-horn powder. That would be a huge help.”
“I’m going there when I’ve finished here,” Crys replied, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. “And I certainly plan
to ask why they’re the biggest consumers of rhino-horn powder.”
Tolo didn’t respond; he just pointedly glanced at his watch.
Crys realized her time with Tolo was running out, so she tried a different approach. “Some experts advocate legalizing trade in horns that have been legally obtained—from rhinos that have died naturally in a national park, for example. What is the South African government’s position on that?”
He shook his head as though it was a stupid question. “CITES is the body that regulates international trade in animal and plant products, and they’re against that practice. However, as you probably know, it is legal to trade rhino horns here in South Africa, as long as they are not exported. But as there’s no local demand, it makes no difference.”
“What about sawing off the horns?” Crys asked. “Some private game farms have done that. And they stopped losing rhinos right away.”
Tolo sucked his lip again. “Impossible! That may work for a game farm, but in a big national park where there are thousands of rhinos? You have to find them, dart them, and remove the horns. That’s very expensive. Tens of thousands of dollars each time. Then they grow back, so you have to do it all again a few years later. Where’s the money going to come from?”
Crys wasn’t getting anywhere.
“Mr. Tolo, a colleague of mine from National Geographic, a Michael Davidson, interviewed you a few months ago. I wonder if you’ve spoken to him since.”
Tolo shook his head. “I remember talking to someone from your magazine, but don’t remember his name. But I’m sure I haven’t spoken to him since. Why do you ask?”
“We haven’t heard from him for a while, and he hasn’t returned to the U.S. from South Africa. We’re concerned.”
Tolo just shrugged. “In that case, I suggest you take it up with the police rather than Environmental Affairs.”
“As part of the research for my story,” Crys continued, realizing she wasn’t going to learn anything about Michael, “I’d like to spend time with one of the anti-poaching units in a national park. I want to see how they operate. Can you arrange that?”
“Impossible! It’s too dangerous. It’s a war out there, you know. As I told you, some of the patrols shoot to kill. And the poachers shoot back. I can’t put you at that kind of risk.”
Crys started to explain to him how she could look after herself, but could tell he just saw a young Vietnamese woman who’d only be in the way. She sighed. It wasn’t the first time she’d had that problem.
He stood up and, after scrabbling around in a filing cabinet, handed her a thick envelope. “There’s lots of background information in here. I’m sure it will answer any other questions you have. Now, I’m afraid I have another appointment.”
Crys had nothing to show for her morning except a few notes that added nothing to what Michael had already written.
* * *
As she left the building, a wave of heat hit her. It was difficult for her to comprehend that just three days before, she was cross-country skiing in Minnesota at twenty degrees Fahrenheit. In Pretoria, it was about ninety-five degrees and sticky.
If she didn’t miss Tolo’s attitude, she certainly missed his air conditioning.
There was a rush of people on the sidewalk. South Africa’s economy may have been shaky, but downtown Pretoria was frenetic. A scruffy man came up to Crys and asked her for money. She shook her head and started to move away, but he followed.
“I’ll get you a taxi,” he said. Crys shook her head again. It had only taken a few minutes in the cab to get to the department from the hotel, and she was looking forward to the walk back. Fortunately, he wasn’t persistent and vanished into the crowds.
As she walked on, however, she had the sensation she was being watched. She spun around just in time to see the man who’d asked her for money. He quickly looked away and pretended to be going in another direction.
She thought he was probably looking for an easy target.
Crys knew more than a little karate. A scrawny pickpocket didn’t worry her; but she did hold her briefcase more firmly, and when she reached her hotel was pleased to escape the crowds and the heat.
When she opened the door to her room, Crys was relieved to see her suitcase on the bed. At last, something was going right: Delta had actually come through with its promise to deliver.
Crys went to open it, but as she did, she noticed that both locks were broken. All that was preventing the contents from falling out was the colorful strap she always used—more for identification than for security.
Crys groaned. Her next stop was at Tshukudu Nature Reserve on the border of the Kruger National Park, so she’d have to buy a new suitcase before heading out there.
She flipped the case open.
“What the—?” Crys couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Someone had been through her belongings. Her neatly folded clothes had been taken out, scrunched up, and stuffed back in; all her toiletries had been removed from their bag, but not replaced. And the lining of the case had been cut. Someone had been checking to see whether anything was hidden behind it.
She wondered why anyone would do something like that.
It wouldn’t be customs—Crys had traveled a lot and knew they were usually halfway decent at repacking suitcases. She pulled out her phone and pressed the number for Delta’s baggage services.
After waiting for an age to get through to the right person, Crys was assured that her bag had left the airport in good shape. She frowned as she rang off, staring at her jumbled belongings. Could this have happened after her suitcase arrived at the hotel?
She picked up the room phone, called the concierge and asked if he had taken delivery of the suitcase.
“Yes,” he replied, “at about half past two.”
“Did you notice if it was in good shape?”
“Yes, it was. Is there a problem?
“Yes, there is! It’s wrecked—someone’s broken it open. And they’ve been through it. My stuff’s all messed up.”
“I’ll call the police right away, madam.”
“No…don’t bother.” Crys sighed, dropping onto the bed, exhausted. “My insurance will cover the suitcase itself, and I don’t think I’ve lost anything. It’ll just be a waste of time to get the police involved. But…” She thought for a moment. “You didn’t notice anyone following the porter who delivered the suitcase to my room, did you?
“No, madam.”
“Who has access to room keys? Because if the porter delivered it intact, somebody searched it in the room.”
“No one other than the housekeeping staff has a master key. And also the porter—but he only had it while he was taking it up for you.”
“Would it be possible to look at any CCTV you have of the foyer of the hotel and the passage to my room, please? I’d only need it from the time the suitcase was delivered to you.”
There was a silence. Then he answered that he’d check with the manager, but didn’t think there would be a problem. He’d let her know the next morning.
Crys thanked the man and hung up.
She was beginning to feel a little spooked—first the man following her and now this. She lay back on the bed, letting the cool draft of stale air from the air conditioning unit flow over her, but her mind was still racing. Her first day in South Africa hadn’t been a good one.
Crys decided a little yoga would help her calm down, so she folded a towel on the floor, sat down, and twisted into a half lotus. She breathed deeply, closed her eyes, and started softly chanting her mantra: Úm ma ni bát ni hồng. Úm ma ni bát ni hồng. Úm ma ni bát ni hồng. Úm ma ni bát ni hồng.
She slowly began to relax. Her mind focused. Her heart rate slowed, and she tried to open her mind to good thoughts. But images of the vandalized suitcase rattled around her head. Úm ma ni bát ni hồng. Úm ma ni bát ni hồng.
>
After about thirty minutes, Crys brought herself back to the present, uncoiled, and went for a hot shower. She resigned herself that there was nothing more she could do that evening, so prepared for a night of jet-lagged sleep.
As she put her head on the pillow, Crys realized there was a bright spot in all of this. She could use her bad first day as a topic for her special column for the Duluth News Tribune.
With that thought in mind, Crys closed her eyes and fell into a troubled sleep.
Chapter 4
When she woke up the next morning, Crys realized it was time to put the bad start to the trip behind her and move on.
She’d contacted the Tshukudu Nature Reserve before she’d left Minnesota, and they’d said she was welcome anytime. It was a private conservancy where they protected rhinos, but also bred them and harvested their horns.
Crys phoned the main number and asked to speak to Johannes Malan, with whom she’d exchanged emails. When he came to the phone, Crys asked if she could take him up on his offer and visit for a few days.
“I’d like to arrive tomorrow, if that’s okay?”
“Of course. Take the 11:45 SAA Airlink flight from Oliver Tambo International to Phalaborwa. We’ll meet you around one.” Crys was intrigued by his accent—flat and rough, with rolled r’s. “It’s about a two-hour hour drive back to Tshukudu. Call me if there are any problems.”
At last a positive response. Crys immediately felt better. Tshukudu was the last place she knew Michael had been. She had high hopes that she’d be able to pick up his trail from there.
Her excitement mounted as she realized that she was soon going to be in the real African bush.
* * *
With time to spare and a lovely day outside, Crys decided to go for a run. After nearly twenty-four hours of being cramped in planes, her body needed the exercise.
She put on her running clothes and shoes, grabbed her point-and-shoot camera, and walked out of the hotel. What struck Crys immediately was that nearly everyone on the streets was black, from beggars, to street vendors, to men in tailored suits—businessmen or politicians, she guessed, this being the country’s capital. It was a huge contrast to Duluth’s sea of Scandinavian blond dotted with just a few black faces.
Shoot the Bastards Page 3
